pzb.lostsouls-第9部分

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　　Years　later；　when　his　aunt　and　cousins　took　him　to　church；　he　suspected　that　this　was　more　of　the　same　magical　gobbledygook　updated　for　grown…ups。　With　the　cynical　hope　of　an　eleven…year…old　he　prayed　for　the　successful　flight　of　the　hyperspace　machine　he　and　his　friend　R。J。　were　building　in　the　Finns'　garage。　But　the　motors　they　had　salvaged　from　hair　dryers；　refrigerators；　and　one　precious　wrecked　motorcycle　left　them　stranded　on　earth；　no　matter　how　many　adjustments　they　made；　how　many　dials　they　twisted；　no　matter　how　many　times　R。J。　pushed　his　glasses　up　on　his　nose　and　checked　the　spiral　notebook　from　Walgreen's　that　contained　his　calculations；　no　matter　how　bitterly　Steve　cussed　and　kicked　at　the　mess　of　machinery。
　　Steve　thought　his　belief　in　magic　might　well　have　died　there；　at　the　hands　of　a　God　who　cared　nothing　for　a　hyperspace　machine　built　by　the　labor　and　thievery　and　faith　of　two　skinny；　sweaty　boys　who　had　hoped　all　through　a　long　summer。　Steve's　faith　might　have　been　shattered　beyond　salvation；　might　have　died　right　there　on　that　garage　floor；　along　with　the　snips　of　wire；　the　scraps　of　metal；　the　broken　drill　bit　that　his　dad　whaled　him　for。
　　He　might　never　have　believed　in　magic　again。　But　a　few　weeks　later…right　around　this　time　of　year；　he　realized；　twelve　years　ago　to　the　month…he　met　Ghost；　and　everything　changed　forever。
　　It　was　near　the　end　of　his　eleventh　summer；　when　the　season　was　about　to　turn；　when　Steve　was　poised　at　the　last　reach　of　childhood。　The　passions　and　excitements　of　children　no　longer　seemed　so　heady　to　him。　He　felt　faintly　silly　for　having　tried　to　build　a　hyperspace　machine；　or　indeed　for　doing　anything　that　was　not　dictated　by　the　realm　of　the　practical。　He　cringed　now　to　think　how　different　he　might　have　been。　He　might　never　have　picked　up　a　guitar；　might　have　graduated　from　N。C。　State　with　a　bachelor's　degree　in　advertising　or　some　such　deathsome　thing。　If　he　hadn't　met　Ghost。
　　The　locusts　were　still　singing　in　the　trees　and　in　the　long　weeds　by　the　side　of　the　road；　but　their　song　grew　sad；　the　harbinger　of　another　summer's　end。　School　was　in　session。　The　days　would　be　relentlessly　hot　and　sticky　for　another　month　at　least；　but　some　new　coolness　in　the　night　air　signalled　the　golden　mantle　of　fall。　As　at　the　beginning　of　every　school　year；　there　Was　a　new　kid。　This　year　the　new　kid　was　a　pale；　frail…looking　boy　whose　hair　was　a　little　too　long　to　meet　the　current　standards；　who　came　to　school　wearing　shirts　that　were　clean　but　always　seemed　to　hang　from　him　too　loosely。　Steve　sat　behind　him　in　class　and　saw　that　his　shoulder　blades　were　as　distinct　and　articulated　as　the　joints　of　birds'　wings。
　　By　rote　the　new　kid　was　ignored　at　first；　though　there　was　some　discussion　of　his　funny　name　and　his　hillbilly　origins。　Then；　by　virtue　of　his　appearance；　his　quietness；　and　his　disinclination　to　join　in　the　sixth…grade　touch…football　games　at　recess；　he　was　judged　a　fag　and　thereafter　jeered　at。　Everyone　knew　he　must　be　smart　because　he'd　e　up　a　grade　and　was　a　year　younger　than　the　rest　of　the　class。　Most　of　the　kids　in　Missing　Mile　had　something　weird　about　them：　their　fathers　had　died　in　the　big　fire　at　the　old　cotton　mill；　or　their　mothers　worked　as　strippers　in　Raleigh；　or　they　lived　out　on　Violin　Road　and　were　so　poor；　the　rumor　went；　that　they　had　to　eat　roadkill。
　　These　children　were　happy　to　have　someone　to　look　down　upon。　The　new　kid　didn't　seem　to　care；　or　even　really　notice；　even　when　the　sixth…grade　boys　zinged　him　with　pinecones　and　chunks　of　gravel；　he　looked　around　bewilderedly　as　if　he　thought　they　might　have　fallen　out　of　the　sky。　He　checked　out　grown…up　hooks　about　space　from　the　school　library　and　spent　his　recesses　in　the　fringe　of　woods　at　the　edge　of　the　yard。
　　Steve　was　curious。　He'd　heard　the　new　kid　and　his　grandmother　had　moved　here　from　the　mountains；　and　he　wanted　to　hear　about　the　mountains。　He　and　his　parents　had　driven　through　them　once；　and　to　Steve　they　had　seemed　a　place　of　dark　mystery；　of　lushness；　of　a　foreboding　beauty　that　verged　on　the　sinister。　In　the　mountains　you　wouldn't　need　a　hyperspace　machine；　in　the　mountains　they　kept　giant　possums　for　yard　dogs。
　　So　one　day　Steve　forsook　the　touch…football　game…it　was　kind　of　a　stupid　affair　anyway；　less　concerned　with　the　actual　rules　of　football　than　with　knocking　down　as　many　kids　as　possible　and　grinding　their　faces　into　the　dirt…and　took　his　own　walk　in　the　woods。　He　walked　with　his　hands　stuffed　in　his　pockets；　feeling　awkward；　half…hoping　he　wouldn't　meet　the　new　kid；　who　probably　only　wanted　to　be　left　alone；　who　surely　thought　he　was　just　a　roughneck　jerkoff　like　the　others。　The　woods　were　sun…dappled　and　quiet；　but　Steve　kept　walking　into　old　strands　of　spiderweb　that　stuck　to　his　face　and　made　him　think　tickly　legs　were　racing　down　his　back。　He　was　about　to　give　it　up　and　go　play　football　after　all　when　he　heard　a　quiet　〃hey〃　from　above　his　head。
　　Steve　looked　up　into　the　calmest　blue　eyes　he'd　ever　seen。　No　wonder　this　kid　didn't　mind　insults　or　pinecones。　Set　in　a　face　that　was　far　too　delicate；　framed　by　wisps　of　rain…pale　hair；　those　eyes　were　nevertheless　at　peace。　Steve　wondered　what　it　felt　like　to　have　eyes　like　that。
　　The　kid　was　perched　fortably　in　a　tree；　his　legs　stretched　out　along　a　low　branch；　his　back　snuggled　against　the　trunk。　He　raised　an　arm　and　pointed　to　a　spot　along　the　path　just　past　Steve。
　　At　first　Steve　didn't　see　anything。　Then　all　at　once　it　came　clear；　the　way　an　optical　illusion　will　suddenly　resolve　itself：　an　intricate　and　enormous　web　that　spanned　the　path；　and　hanging　head…down　at　the　middle　of　the　concentric　gossamer　circles；　a　particularly　large；　juicy…looking　brown　weaver。　Another　couple　of　steps　and　Steve　would　have　walked　right　into　it。　He　tried　unsuccessfully　to　suppress　a　shudder。
　　〃Spiders　are　spinning　all　over　the　woods；〃　said　the　kid。　'That　means　it'll　be　cold　soon。〃
　　This　went　against　the　rationality　that　Steve　so　loved。　It　sounded　childish。　What　could　spiders　have　to　do　with　the　weather？　〃How　do　you　know？〃　he　said。
　　〃My　grandmother　knows　all　that　stuff。〃　The　blue　eyes　did　not　challenge　Steve　to　believe。　The　kid　had　an　air　of　quiet　sureness；　there　was　nothing　cocky　about　him；　nothing　arrogant；　but　he　seemed　to　know　he　spoke　the　truth。
　　Steve　was　interested　despite　himself。　Anyway；　a　kid　from　the　mountains　was　surely　entitled　to　his　share　of　weird　folklore。　〃Yeah？〃　he　said。　〃What　else　does　your　grandmother　know　about？〃
　　〃Lots　of　stuff。〃　The　kid　hesitated。　〃If　you　want　to　meet　her；　you　could　e　visit　us　sometime。　We　live　out　on　Burnt　Church　Road　right　by　the　dead　end。〃
　　It　should　have　been　hard　to　extend　that　invitation；　being　the　new　kid　with　no　real　friends；　not　knowing　whether　Steve　might　just　laugh　at　him　and　walk　away。　And　it　should　have　been　difficult　for　Steve　to　accept。　But　already　there　was　an　easiness　between　them　that　surpassed　any　words　they　had　exchanged。　Standing　on　the　path　in　the　sun…dappled　September　woods　staring　up　at　the　skinny　kid　in　the　tree；　the　kid　he　had　not　yet　known　for　ten　minutes；　Steve　felt　fortable；　as　if　he　could　say　anything。　It　was　not　quite　deja　vu；　it　was　not　so　unsettling；　but　it　was　somehow　familiar。　When　he　remembered　it　now；　Steve　thought　that　it　was　not　so　much　like　meeting　a　friend　as　like　recognizing　one。
　　He　loosened　his　grip　on　the　steering　wheel　and　stared　ahead　into　the　sparkling　night。　Christ；　but　he　was　tense…first　his　bad　mood　and　the　whiskey；　then　the　spooky　shit　on　the　hill。　His　nerves　were　as　fight　as　the　thrumming　of　the　wheels　on　the　road。　Ghost　mumbled　something；　but　when　Steve　glanced　over　at　him；　Ghost　was　still　sleeping；　his　eyes　soundly　shut　and　his　hands　lying　limp　in　his　lap。　He　was　dreaming　again。　Ghost　always　dreamed；　but　only　sometimes　did　his　dreams　e　true；
　　Now　they　were　ing　into　the　outskirts　of　Missing　Mile；　the　place　called　Violin　Road；　where　dark　pine　branches　hung　over　the　dusty　gravel　road；　where　the　land　was　peppered　with　heaps　of　old　scrap　metal　and　chicken　Coops　and　family　graveyards　that　sprouted　from　the　tired　grass　like　sad　little　crops　of　stone。　Whenever　Steve　drove　out　here　in　the　daytime；　he　saw　kids　with　ragged　clothes　and　faded　eyes　playing　on　rickety　jungle　gyms；　digging　holes　in　the　dirt　of　the　scrubby　yards；　standing　aimlessly；　their　heads　swivelling　to　follow　the　T…bird　as　it　went　by。　Once　he　had　seen　a　group　of　small　kids　hunkered　down　around　a　dead　possum　by　the　side　of　the　road；　poking　it　and　turning　it　over　with　sticks；　looking　for　maggots。　That　had　been　a　hundred…degree　August　day；　and　Steve　had　caught　a　noseful　of　ripe　possum　as　he'd　driven　past。
　　But　now；　under　the　cold　September　moon；　the　trailers　and　rusty　cars　and　trash　heaps　seemed　to　fade；　to　grow　insubstantial。　Only　the　grass　and　the　low…hanging　trees　appeared　to　shimmer　and　e　alive。　Steve　wondered　who　lived　here；　scratching　out　a　place　to　exist；　holding　the　kudzu　and　the　wide　empty　sky　at　bay。　Were　they　farmers　gone　broke　trying　to　beg　crops　from　this　dirt　that　had　gone　barren　fifty　years　ago？　Were　they　field　hippies；　aging　bohemians　who　thought　living　off　the　land　meant　a　couple　of　scraggly　tomato　plants　and　Dannon　yogurt　from　the　7…Eleven　two　miles　up　the　road？
　　Steve　glanced　down　at　the　gas　gauge。　Nearly　empty；　but　the　change　from　the　Pepsi　machine　would　buy　a　tankful　tomorrow。　The　T…bird　was　damn　thirsty　these　days。　Piece　of　shit；　he　thought　with　affection。
　　They　were　almost　home　now。　Steve　would　sleep　in　his　once…cheerful　wreck　of　a　room；　swathed　in　filthy　sheets；　trying　to　fend　off　nightmares。　In　the　morning　Ghost　would　make　whole…grain　banana　pancakes　and　bring　him　a　beer。　The　presence　of　Ghost　in　the　next　room；　drunk　and　dreaming；　would　be　a　fort。　It　had　been　a　long　night。
　　
　　　Chapter　5
　　
　　Fifteen　years　later；　Christian's　bar　was　not　so　very　different　than　it　had　been　on　that　last　night　of　Mardi　Gras；　that　night　of　blood　and　altars。　That　delicious　night。
　　One　of　the　stained…glass　windows　had　been　broken　in　a　fight；　on　a　rare　evening　when　the　bar　was　crowded　and　the　liquor　flowed　too　freely　and　tempers　reached　a　sodden　white…hot　pitch。　Christian　never　found　a　replacement　for　the　antique　glass。　The